More to Come
We’re at the top. Standing over the cliff edge. The hardest part is over. The wind is whistling overhead. The sun is starting to set. There’s a pink tint in the air. We could smell the bog. The lake is stretched long between the wall we climbed and the wall we’re yet to see. It is silent, interrupted by the chirps of little birds. The ground is soft covered by thorn bushes. There is a lingering danger this close to the edge.
this place is beautiful —
I can’t wait to see the end
but theres always more to come
by Jack Coleman-Brislane
There is an enjoyable immediacy to this poem, and I was impressed by the writer’s use of all of the senses throughout, something often forgotten about when a place is being described. As well as being able to see the lake ‘stretched long’ between the wall’, we can hear the wind ‘whistling’ and ‘smell’ the bog’. Touch is referenced in the ground being shown as ‘soft covered by thorn bushes.’ This is a poem that manages to say a lot in a way that is skilful in its compression.